


What Light Through Yonder Window Breaks?

by obscurial



Category: SKAM (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, It might get a little angsty, Just watch me, M/M, Mutual Pining, You bet I'm gonna milk all the Romeo and Juliet references I possibly can, but not entirely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-24
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-18 11:20:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11289693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obscurial/pseuds/obscurial
Summary: The one where Isak and Even have balconies directly across each other. (in other words, a neighbours!au.)





	1. The first meeting

**Author's Note:**

> hi! pls be careful, this fic mentions domestic violence briefly! enjoy!!
> 
> (as of 3 oct 2017, this fic has been discontinued)

Isak is thirteen when his father hits him for the first time.

It all happened so quickly – one moment, he was complaining about missing the comforting, all-encompassing warmth of his mother’s arms, the next feeling a very different kind of warmth; a spreading, burning sensation across his cheekbone, bordering the sensitive skin beneath his left eye. Isak’s not entirely sure if the blurring of his vision comes from the pain, or from the betrayal.

His father is frozen, hand still raised and fingers still parted, almost as if he’s deciding whether to apologise or to do it again. His mouth hangs wide open, the sickening stench of beer wafting towards Isak’s nose, which he crinkles in disgust. And despite being taught at school about manners and respecting your parents, Isak turns his back to his father without even dignifying him with a response and calmly walks to his room, even going as far to slam his door shut slightly louder than usual.

As he turns the lock, however, his tough facade shatters, wobbly legs threatening to collapse under themselves and hands shaking uncontrollably as he frantically rushes towards the balcony, eager to be as far away from that monster in the living room as possible.

Usually, he detests how his room is the closest to the highway – being the light sleeper that he is, the constant, obnoxious roaring of car engines is enough to keep him up all night long – but now, he’s almost grateful for the noise, thankful that his pathetic sobs and hiccups are covered by reckless speeders and motorbikes.

Folding his knees to his chest, he curls his fingers into tightly-balled fists and buries his face into the coarse fabric of his trousers, snot, tears, spit and all. He just wants to be as small as possible, just wants to disappear from the world for just a little. For as long as he lives in a universe where he’s not allowed to go see his darling _mamma_ because she’s “not stable enough”, or where his father slaps him because he’s too inebriated to think clearly, Isak doesn’t want to be a part of _any_ of it.

“Psst. _Psssst_. Are you okay?”

His head shoots up so quickly, he almost gives himself a severe case of whiplash.

“W-Who’s there?” Isak manages to squeak out. His heart is beating so rapidly, he can practically hear its unsteady beat thumping on his eardrums loud and clear.

“Halla, it’s your conscience. We haven’t spoken for a while. How are you?”

Scrunching his nose and narrowing his eyes, Isak quietly gets up from where he was sitting on his balcony floor, resting both his elbows on the top of the handrail and setting his chin lightly on the back of his palms.

“Ha ha, very funny. Seriously, who are you?”

Nothing could possibly prepare him for the grinning face that suddenly springs into his view.

Startled, Isak backs away from the edge swiftly, and his clumsy, useless feet would have embarrassingly tripped himself backwards, if not for his quick reflexes. His hands tremble, desperately clutching at his door frame for dear life and he thinks that he’s quite possibly shaved off a good five years of said life.

“Super sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you!” says the mysterious voice once more, but this time, Isak is more preoccupied with the thought of _oh my god this is the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen_ to worry about his feeble heart.

The boy has _the_ prettiest eyes Isak’s ever seen, all wide and innocent and framed with the most delicate of lashes. Isak thinks that he could almost drown in them, completely enamoured with its pale cornflower hue and hey, is that a speck of grey he sees in th–

Right, the boy is probably waiting for Isak’s response. And here he is, gawking at his (gorgeous) face like a complete idiot.

“That’s ok-ay!” Isak almost screeches, voice wavering slightly on the last syllable because _of course it would_ , this universe hates him.

But maybe his voice cracking isn't such a bad thing, because the boy’s concerned expression breaks into a relieved smile. And god, if Isak didn’t already think that the boy was absolutely breathtaking, he definitely does now. He didn’t realise teeth could even be considered cute? Why is the boy’s sharper-than-usual canines so cute?

“I’m glad to hear that!” the boy chirps, stretching his arm across from his own balcony, “My name’s Even! It’s nice to meet you!”

Isak hesitantly shakes Even’s hand, suddenly feeling shy and gross about touching someone who looks so pure and _ethereal_ and oh no, he’s zoning out again.

“– so I was thinking, ‘Hey! Why not try and cheer him up?’ And then you asked me who I was, and I wasn’t even thinking, I just blurted whatever came to my mind first, and Else and I were watching _Finding Nemo_ , so I had that quote at the front of my mind, and I just– Sorry, but did you know _that Finding Nemo_ was the highest-grossing G-rated film of all time before Toy Story 3 overtook it? I’m so disappointed, like it’s a cinematic masterpiece that raises important issues like–“

Isak is thoroughly overwhelmed. Yet somehow, he doesn’t quite mind Even’s ramblings about films. There’s a special kind of sparkle in his eyes when he speaks, almost as if the passion in him is at maximum capacity, spilling into his voice and exaggerated hand gestures. Isak doesn’t even realise he’s smiling until his cheeks begin to ache a little.

“Isak!” _Thump, thump, thump._

The smile instantaneously drops from Isak’s face, and Even pauses mid-speech, lips slightly parted.

“Isak!” _Thump, thump, thump._ “Who’re you talking to?”

Turning to face his door, Isak shakily replies, “My conscience, I’m speaking to my conscience.”

The door handle quivers, as his father tries to force his way into Isak’s room, but the lock stubbornly does not budge. He eventually gives up after a while, muttering under his breath something about how _everyone in this god damn family is fucking crazy_.

As his footsteps begin to fade away, Isak nervously steals a glance at Even, who’s staring blankly at him. Great, does his father have to ruin _everything_ in his life? Now all Even’s going to think of whenever he looks at Isak is how messed up his family life is, and that he wants nothing to do with him, and Isak doesn’t blame him because hey, if he had a choice, Isak wouldn’t want anything to do with himself either! And–

Even bursts into a sudden fit of laughter, eyes squeezing shut and hands clutching at his forehead.

Isak feels oddly offended, somehow.

“Y-You… You said- You said you were speaking to your conscience! Oh my god, that’s amazing, I-I can’t believe you said that, _Jesus_ , that’s iconic,” Even howls in-between shallow breaths, and Isak can’t help but allow the corner of his lip to twitch in an upwards smile.

“Shut _up_ , you said it first,” he mumbles, cheeks flushing and ears glowing a bright red. He crosses his arms firmly, self-conscious and determined to stare at the balcony floor instead of Even. But he sneaks little peeks at Even’s giant grin when he thinks that the other boy isn’t looking, because sue him, he’s human too and very, very weak for Even’s god-crafted facial features.

Wiping a tear from the corner of his eye, Even hums, leaning the side of his (so beautiful!) face into his (also beautiful!) knuckles. His smile is different now, soft and gentle and sweet. And the way he’s gazing at Isak– It prompts another round of furious blushing, and Isak kind of wishes that his balcony would just crumble right this instant, plummeting his helpless body towards a sweet, sweet death. (But not really)

“W-What is it,” Isak stammers, eyes darting from Even’s (super cute!) face to the highway to his pale yellow curtains, and slouching, curling into his crossed arms like the insecure little shrimp that he is.

Even shrugs dopily, never once removing his gaze from Isak.

“Nothing,” he dreamily murmurs, “I’m just watching the most beautiful film in the world. Wanna watch with me?”

And okay, Isak’s reached his maximum blushing capacity. He absolutely does _not_ need this right now.

“Bye, Even,” Isak squawks, rushing into his room and hastily closing his balcony door a little louder than he intended. Just as he’s about to draw the curtains, however, he sees Even’s huge, goofy grin and god, if he doesn’t get to his bed right this instant, he’s going to fall over because he is _weak_ in the knees.

But the barrier between them does give Isak a sudden boost of confidence, and without really thinking, he bashfully waves at Even with a tentative smile from behind his curtains.

And if Even nearly smashing his jaw onto the balcony handrail in reaction to that is an indication that he’s just as awkward as Isak is, well, that makes his heart beat just a _tiny_ bit faster than usual.

 


	2. Finding comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fantasising about Even is pretty much Isak's best bet at distracting himself from what lies beyond his bedroom door.

Meeting Even sure has its downsides, Isak thinks to himself, glancing up from his textbook for the fifth time that afternoon and hoping to catch that familiar head of golden hair. To his disappointment, only a closed door lies before him.

He’s been so distracted lately, ever since that night Even had tried to cheer him up while he was crying his eyes out on his balcony. And he doesn’t understand why he allows his wild imagination to wander, considering how Even’s so much more handsome than he is, and he’s much taller than Isak is, so he’s most likely older, which means he probably doesn’t want to associate with annoying thirteen year-olds like Isak. Maybe that’s why he hasn’t seen him around lately.

But he can’t help it, really. Fantasising about Even is pretty much his best bet at distracting himself from what lies beyond his bedroom door.

Ever since the night he met Even, his father’s been keeping his distance from Isak. Which is fine by him, really, he’s gotten really good at coordinating his schedule with his father’s so that he doesn’t have to run into him at all. When he wakes up for school, Isak’s father is still sound asleep, and when he returns, his father’s still at work. And he doesn’t come back until Isak’s already in bed, too, which makes things all much easier. He just needs to remember to lock his door before his father comes back, just in case.

Giving up on studying for now, Isak drags his tired, heavy body towards his bed, collapsing onto the duvet with a soft groan. He didn’t get much rest last night. And for once, it wasn’t the noisy cars on the highway, it was his father’s hostile sneers leaking in from beneath the crevice of his door at four in the morning, his door handle rattling harshly and the dreadful, suffocating feeling of panic seizing Isak’s throat because _what will he do to me if he manages to come in?_

His father must’ve gone to see his _mamma_ at the psychiatric ward yesterday.

Isak’s never been allowed to visit her since she was hospitalised a month ago, because his father somehow thinks that mental illness is something contagious and _all of a_ _sudden_ , he’s a responsible father whose son’s wellbeing is first priority.

But keeping Isak from her is completely ridiculous, really – all it does is cause Isak unnecessary stress, because he has the worst feeling that his father’s never mentioned to her how often Isak begs to see her, how often he cries himself to sleep wishing that he was there to hug her and tell her that _he doesn’t care whether she’s schizophrenic or not, she’s still his beloved mamma and always will be_.

What if she thinks that Isak hates her for being mentally ill? What if she thinks that Isak is terrified of her after that episode she had a month ago that ended with him in the ER and her in the psychiatric ward? What if she’s drowning in waves of guilt and self-hatred, because she knows that she hurt Isak?

Tracing the raised skin around his collarbone, Isak breathes shakily, remembering the pure, manic rage in his gentle _mamma_ ’s eyes, remembering how out-of-place the broken scissor blade had looked, clutched in her dainty hand. And he will never forget the way his father’s name simply _ripped_ from the depths of her throat, ugly and sharp and laced with such unadulterated _hatred_. Not even the excruciating pain blooming in his shoulder could have distracted Isak from her tortured wailing; her desperate screams of _I hate you, I hate you, die, die, die_ will continue to haunt him in his every nightmare.

The next thing Isak knew, he was laid out on an emergency stretcher in an ambulance, and a quarter of the blade was plunged deep into his flesh, a hair’s length away from his lung. The last thing he recalls is the paramedic’s voice faintly drifting around his fuzzy mind, before he ultimately surrendered to the thick drowsiness from the anaesthetic in the surgery room.

His fingernails unknowingly begin to dig into his scar, earning himself quiet winces and hisses. But he deserves it, Isak thinks, staring vacantly into a crack in his ceiling. He deserves it for not being strong enough to support his _mamma_ emotionally, not knowing how to get to the psychiatric ward on his own, not being _brave_ enough to confront his father. By the time he removes his fingers from his shoulder, his scar is pink and he can almost feel it throbbing in protest, aggravated by his constant touching.

Isak heaves a weary sigh, pressing the back of his forearm into his eyelids to stop the blistering tears from streaking down his face.

_Tap tap tap tap._

Confused, Isak cranes his head to peer at the source of the noise, possibly to whisper for it to _fuck right off because he’s having a bit of a self-depreciating moment here, thank you very much_ , only to meet a familiar pair of bright eyes.

Scrambling to his feet, Isak carelessly swipes his sleeve across his face, hoping he looks mildly presentable and not at all like he’s just had a mini-breakdown in the past five minutes.

As he approaches the balcony, he notices that Even is holding a silver foil, its blunt point facing Isak, and he waves it around haughtily, a smug grin plastered across his face. Opening the balcony door slowly, Isak mock-rolls his eyes when Even playfully presses the end of his fencing sword into Isak’s chest, half-amused and half-anxious, his traitorous heart singing at the very sight of Even.

“Where did you even get that from?” he says, attempting to keep the smile out of his voice, but to no avail, he ends up beaming widely. The Even-effect must be taking a greater toll on him than anticipated, yikes.

“T’was passed down my paternal lineage for centuries, as a symbol of chivalry! Why, I’ve heard tales from the families of warriors who’ve fought my ancestors,” Even leans in closely, eyes sparkling with pure passion, “I’ve heard them cry, ‘ _Beware, beware! For he who bears the sword of Bech Næsheim possesses capabilities beyond mortal men!_ ’”

Isak pinches the tip of the sword, examining it for a moment.

“It’s made of aluminium, Even,” he snorts, pushing the foil back over onto Even’s side.

“Ah, but you see, it got you to come out here, so it’s just as precious, then,” Even replies with a dopey smile, lanky arms hanging off the handrail of his balcony.

Covering his burning face with the palms of his hands, Isak squeals in exasperation, but he cannot quite seem to get rid of his enormous smile. Parting his fingers to peep, he feels his cheeks turn a deeper scarlet, if that were even possible, when he notices the fond expression gracing the other boy’s features.

Setting the sword down behind him haphazardly, Even rests his cheek against the balcony handrail, letting his arms flop around limply.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he softly speaks, and if he didn’t have Isak’s undivided attention, he would’ve completely missed it, “I… I saw you, earlier. On your bed.”

Oh. Isak instinctively reaches up to cover his shoulder, hunching inwards.

“It’s nothing,” he says, almost a bit _too_ quickly to be written off as casual, “But thank you for asking.”

Even nods in understanding, eyes soft and sympathetic, and it’s almost as if Isak had confided in him instead of brushing him off. He then reaches one of his long arms towards Isak, fingers spread out wide.

“I find that whenever I feel like shit, hugging someone always helps! Which I would totally offer you, by the way, but I’m too far away, so… maybe hand-holding will do?”

Lips tilting into a crooked smile, Isak gently grasps onto Even’s hand, burying his embarrassingly hot face into the crook of his elbow as he muffles out his thanks. He wonders, for a moment, how silly they must look right now, two boys on two balconies, hands clasped tightly and smiling widely.

But as he feels Even squeeze his hand lightly, almost as if he were cherishing this very moment, Isak finds that he doesn’t really care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg thank u all so much for the wonderful responses to the last chapter !!!!!!! i am Alive !!!!!!! anyway pls let me know what u think of this chapter !! ily all, i hope the recent ending of skam hasn't destroyed everyone completely :'/


	3. Heart to Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I never sleep, ‘cause sleep is the cousin of death.”

 

Sometimes, when his mind refuses to delve into the realm of sleep, Isak wonders if things such as parallel universes exist.

Like a universe where his _mamma_ was never hospitalised, or a universe where his father left the two of them behind to fend for themselves. Maybe even one where his parents are happy and healthy and loving, like Jonas’s parents.

Isak feels a pang of guilt gnawing away at his heart. He’s been avoiding Jonas lately. And Magnus. And Mahdi. He can’t help it, whenever he sees them, chatting and laughing in the cafeteria, he just feels this strange sensation of _self-loathing_ , sticky and thick, coating his skin and suffocating his lungs. A voice in his head (with a drunken slur that sounds _all_ too familiar, but Isak refuses to acknowledge who it belongs to) whispering, _they hate you, they hate you, no one actually likes you, no one actually wants to be around you_. And if Isak allows any of his friends to get close, he worries that he might just burden them with that feeling too.

So he wears a false persona, and laughs a little louder than usual, speaks a little less than usual, lies about his whereabouts a little more than usual. And no one suspects a thing.

Okay, so maybe Jonas has his doubts. He would squint his eyes at Isak, feeling like the latter is hiding something from him, his hard look boring a hole into the side of Isak’s face. Isak amusedly thinks that Jonas is attempting to stare a confession out of him. Which would totally work, by the way, if he didn’t already know (from experience) that Jonas’s furrowed, knotted eyebrows have this annoying ability of “shaming” the truth out of Isak.

(He still remembers accidentally breaking off one of the wheels on Jonas’s skateboard during their last year of primary school and trying to blame this one kid Julian for it, but a single merciless eyebrow raise from Jonas had Isak on his knees, clutching Jonas’s hands tightly and crying for forgiveness. Jonas had laughed it off, saying that Isak’s reaction was absolutely _priceless_ and that he actually wasn’t mad about it at all, so Isak had basically embarrassed himself for nothing. For a while, Isak entertained the idea of shaving those evil, secret-nabbing caterpillars off of his face. But of course, Jonas managed to “shame” that thought out of Isak too.)

But mainly, when Isak’s unable to sleep, he thinks about the mysterious boy from the balcony.

As he thinks of their last meeting, a fond smile creeps its way across his face.

“If you ever feel like talking to someone, just use _the almighty sword of Bech Næsheim_ to tap on my door and I’ll come right out, okay?”

“Even if it’s at three in the morning?”

“ _Especially_ if it’s at three in the morning.”

Tracing the foil with a cautious finger, Isak decides that perhaps it’s time he stopped wondering about parallel universes or _what-could-have-been’s_. It’s time he actually did something for once.

Yet he still hesitates (for a good twenty minutes, he thinks), arm stretched out and aluminium sword in his grip, his other hand grasping weakly at the handrail. The tip of the sword is probably a good three millimetres away from Even’s door, and if Isak gets on his tiptoes, he thinks that he’d be able to reach it easily, but he just _can’t seem to do it_.

What if Even was just being polite? And he didn’t actually want Isak to bother him, but he couldn’t bear to hurt his feelings?

Retracting the sword, Isak slumps against his wall, suddenly feeling pretty lousy and gross inside. Why did he even bother? Why did he _ever_ think that anyone was actually willing to spend their time with him?

_Tap tap tap tap._

Startled, Isak stares intensely at the foil in his hands, completely dumbfounded. If he’s holding the sword, then where did that tapping come from–

The door before him opens suddenly, Even’s million-dollar-smile immediately in his line of sight and _oh god_ , Isak nearly squeaks in surprise, if not for the hand he slaps unceremoniously over his mouth to stifle whatever _embarrassing_ noise he would’ve made.

Good thing he did, because _holy shit_ , Even is _shirtless_ (shirtless!) and if he wasn’t holding onto his lips so _fucking_ tightly, he thinks his jaw would be hanging wide open, maybe even touching the coarse gravel on the highway below.

“God morgen!” he brightly exclaims, as if he didn’t just send Isak into a thirst-induced heart attack, “Sorry, I just thought you needed some help summoning me? Anyway, what’s up?”

Isak blinks, processing Even’s words properly.

“Wait, so you _saw_ me? As in, you saw me _stupidly_ stand here for twenty minutes worrying about whether you’d hate me if I woke you up? Oh my _god_ , that’s so embarrassing, I’m so sorry, I’m gonna- I’m gonna go die in a hole right now, bye,” Isak rambles frantically as he darts his eyes towards the ground, or anywhere, really, anywhere except for the broad expanse of deliciously smooth skin in front of him. Okay, maybe he does sneak a peek or two. But the moment the positively _sinful_ thought of playing connect-the-freckles-on-Even’s-chest with his tongue pops into his head, Isak instantly turns away, equally disturbed and intrigued.

“It wasn’t embarrassing, it was adorable,” Even argues, reaching over to brush his fingers against Isak’s shoulder, beckoning him to turn back. But how could he, knowing that his neck, ears and face are all probably the same horrifying shade of ugly, rotten tomato?

“You know I’ll never hate you, right? I don’t think I ever could hate you. Plus, I’m… I’m usually awake at this time, too. So you wouldn’t be bothering me in the slightest, really.”

Curiosity piqued, Isak slowly turns around.

“Why are you usually awake at this time?” he asks, and Even smiles ruefully in response.

“I never sleep, ‘cause sleep is the cousin of death.”

At Isak’s blank expression, Even raises an eyebrow questioningly.

“You haven’t heard of Nas? Gosh, I forget how young you actually are.”

Indignant, Isak puffs his chest, determined to impress the older boy.

“What! Of- Of course I’ve heard of Nas! And I’m not that young, I’m thirteen!”

“Sure, sure. And I’m fifteen, so yeah, you are still pretty young.”

“No, really! I love all of their poems.”

Even snickers to himself, resting his chin against his palm as his lips curl into a lazy smirk, “Oh _really_ now?”

“Yeah, really! I’m like, the _master_ of poetry. I would know.”

Isak feels like he’s making a complete fool of himself, but with the way Even’s looking at him, he doesn’t really feel like stopping anytime soon.

“But for real, though,” Even speaks, after silence envelopes the two of them, “My sleep cycle’s fucked. Some days I sleep ‘till eight in the evening, some days I don’t sleep at all.”

Isak hums in sympathy, his eyes softly shining. Granted, his own sleep cycle is nowhere near as bad as Even’s, but he knows the feeling. An overwhelming wave of helplessness that simply engulfs you whole, prying your eyelids open and leaving you to uncomfortably fidget amongst your too-warm sheets until sunrise. He’s had his fair share of sleepless nights.

“I think it’s because I’m bipolar. My mum says bipolar people tend to have more delicate body clocks, so,” Even mumbles, suddenly looking far too fragile and far too small, probably feeling vulnerable and bracing himself for the backlash. And Isak simply won’t have that.

“Hey. I think it’s really cool that you trust me enough to tell me that,” he firmly states, and he can’t help but break into a smile when he sees a flash of hope glimmering in Even’s wide, wide eyes, “And it doesn’t change a thing. You’re still the man of my dreams, no matter what.”

Um. Okay. Did he just say that? Did he just-

“I’m the man of your dreams, huh?” Even’s grinning so widely, Isak can hardly see his eyes, but in the faint moonlight, he notices a tell-tale shimmering amongst his eyelashes. He’s too mesmerised to even deny his embarrassing confession.

He does, however, manage a strangled yelp when he feels Even’s warm fingers caressing his hand.

“ _If I profane with my unworthiest hand this holy shrine, the gentle sin is this: my lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss_ ,” Even whispers, before pressing a gentle, chaste kiss against Isak’s bony knuckles, earning an inaudible gasp from the younger.

Isak tightens his hold on Even’s hand, despite refusing to look him in the eyes. He knows he’d instantaneously melt into a puddle if he does, he just _knows_ it.

“This- This is… embarrassing,” he stutters, feeling warmth radiating from his burning cheeks. Mustering his courage, he glances at Even, only to discover that the older boy’s face wasn’t any less red.

“Yeah,” Even nervously chuckles, “Yeah, I guess it is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> seriously!!!!! thank u all so much for the lovely comments + kudos!!! y'all are the best :") <3

**Author's Note:**

> hello i live for comments and kudos pls bless my unworthy soul and i will love you forever :")


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